


Heisenberg's Mirror

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Crack, Encounter with alternate self, Fic, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone in New York is using Neal's alias.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heisenberg's Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> General spoilers for 2.01. Thanks to mergatrude for read-through.

It was noon, and Neal was sitting on the terrace, re-deciphering a coded note from Kate. The note couldn't say what Neal thought it said, because what he thought it said was that Kate had left Lisbon and gone to Prague indefinitely. And sure, they'd fought about the Venice job—they'd been arguing a lot lately—but she wouldn't just up and leave, would she?

The front door of the apartment opened and Mozzie walked in, wearing loafers and slacks with sweat marks at the knee. "I bear strange tidings," he said, pouring himself a glass of water and kicking off his shoes. "Also, it's a furnace out there, and no one sounds like the language tapes."

"Hmm?" Neal frowned at the note. If Kate had left him, he wasn't going to run after her. He had his pride.

"Something weird is afoot." Mozzie pulled out a chair and sat down. "What's that?"

Neal stuffed the note in his pocket. "Nothing. What's up?"

"Kurt Armistead's doing business in New York with someone going by the name of Nick Halden." Mozzie gulped down the water. "I'm presuming you don't have your finger in any Big Apple pies at the moment."

"No, I haven't." Neal raised his eyebrows. "Someone's using my alias?"

"You didn't trademark it," said Mozzie, getting up and going for more water. "But it's a risky strategy—if they get caught, they might end up paying for some of your sins."

"And taking the credit for my virtues." Neal stared unseeingly at the sparkling blue ocean for a few minutes, then pushed his chair back. "Pack up. We're going to New York."

"But we just got here. I just bought a gallon of sunscreen." Mozzie sighed and looked around. "Where's Kate?"

 

* * * * *

 

Neal pulled up the cuff of his jacket to check the time. A quarter to one in the morning. Battery Park was quiet, with just a few shadowy figures heading for the Staten Island ferry terminal. Neal followed them, keeping an eye out for the imposter, the other Nick Halden, but he didn't see him until they were both on board the ferry.

The imposter was on the upper deck, leaning with his forearms on the railing. Neal couldn't see his face, but he was fit, dark-haired, the right height, with good posture. He'd even dressed the part. It had to be him.

"The hat's a nice touch," Neal said, sliding up beside him, companionably close and only a little bit threatening.

The imposter turned slowly, and Neal had to work to hide his shock. It was like looking in a mirror, except that his hair was parted on the left, just like Neal's. Not a reflection, a copy.

"Do I know you?" the copy asked, eyes widening enough that Neal felt smugly superior.

"Steve Tabernacle," said Neal. "Perhaps we're related."

The other man, Halden, tilted his head and studied him openly. "Perhaps we are. Twins separated at birth?"

"Not that I know of." Neal lounged casually against the railing. "I know someone who'd have a theory involving the CIA, Area 51 and cloning tanks, or maybe time travel, but—"

"Wait," said the other guy. "You mean Mozzie?"

Neal got a chill down his spine. "What year is it?"

"Twenty-ten," said the guy. "What year do you think it is?"

"Same. That rules out time travel." Neal took a breath. "How do we test for government conspiracies?"

The doppelganger barely seemed to hear him. "Where were you born?"

"I don't see what—" Neal started to prevaricate, largely out of habit.

The guy held up his hand. "Born in Arizona, grew up in Texas. How am I doing so far?"

Neal nodded. Maybe they _were_ twins, but surely he'd remember. "Keep going."

"The first girl I kissed was Jane Stewart," he said, and that was more or less common knowledge among the people Neal had grown up with. But. "The first boy was Emilio."

"Emilio Ramos," said Neal. "In the basement of his parents' house when I was fifteen." He gripped the railing with both hands, not sure if the ferry had lurched or if it was his stomach. "How did you know?"

"No one knew," said the doppelganger. "I never told anyone."

"Neither did I." Neal felt dizzy. "If you're me, what are you doing here?"

"You're here," the doppelganger pointed out, looking equally shaken. He raised his chin a fraction. "And I'm _me_."

"We're each other," said Neal, trying to be fair, even though the guy was starting to get on his nerves. It was uncomfortable being known through and through, and he wasn't sure if he could trust this other self, with his slick hat and his poorly controlled reactions. Mozzie might be right about it being a trap. "I came to find out who was calling himself Nick Halden. I'm mostly based in Europe now."

The other Neal inhaled deeply, took off his hat and leaned his elbows on the railing. A breeze ruffled his hair. "Since when?"

"Two thousand and four," said Neal. "The FBI were on my tail and Mozzie talked me out of—"

"—the Gless bonds." The other Neal sounded unsurprised. "You should buy Mozzie a gift basket."

"You stayed?"

He shrugged and looked out across the waves. "Got caught, spent nearly four years in prison, escaped, got caught."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "The FBI must have upped their game."

"You have no idea." A slight smile touched the man's lips. Then he sobered and turned back to Neal. "So, before the Gless bonds—"

"Heisenberg's mirror." Neal folded his arms on the railing. "Allegedly. Big old silver-framed thing. Kate had a yen for it, after she read all those books on quantum mechanics."

The other Neal nodded in recognition. Then he frowned and turned to scan the deck. "Wait, you have a Kate? Where is she?"

Neal kept his expression neutral, his voice off-hand. "She's in Prague."

"Alone? Is she okay?"

 _She left me._ Neal couldn't say it aloud, especially not to this other him, who'd no doubt behaved better, loved more deeply. Neal couldn't imagine his Kate waiting patiently if he spent nearly four years in prison. Maybe once upon a time, when they'd been younger, more in love, but familiarity had tarnished both of them. "Aren't you supposed to be meeting one of Armistead's guys?"

"Neal!" A tall vaguely familiar man in an ill-fitting sweater and a tweed cap stage whispered across the empty deck. "Who are you talking to?"

The other Neal froze. "What?"

Neal was grateful for the interruption. He considered leaving, but curiosity kept him in place. Maybe he could learn something from his alternate self; it wasn't every day you got to see firsthand the road not taken.

The guy in the cap came closer. "Are you talking to yourself, or is this incoherent monologue just your way of coming out to me. Emilio? Because much as I appreciate the vote of confidence, you know you could have done that off the record."

Neal put two and two together. "You're wearing a wire. Who is this guy?"

The other Neal ignored him. "Yes, Peter, I'm talking to myself," he said, dryly. "Reminiscing out loud."

"Wait," said Neal. "That's Peter Burke. Oh my God, you're working with the Feds. I'm working with the Feds!"

"Consulting," said the other Neal under his breath.

"What?" said Peter.

"Nothing." The other Neal waved him away. "Go on. I'm fine. I'm on the job." He added under his breath, "Work release."

"He can't see me," said Neal. He walked right up to Burke and waved a hand in front of his face. Burke's eyes didn't flicker—he was literally looking right through him. It was awful. Neal remembered his few brief encounters with the man, years ago: his sharp gaze had been almost intoxicating. "I'm not sure I—"

A stocky figure appeared at the top of the stairs, took one look at Burke and the other Neal, and nearly bolted, but the other Neal sauntered over as if there was nothing to worry about and managed to engage him in conversation. They had a quick, quiet exchange, while Burke loitered, somehow transforming into a picture of the harmless, nondescript everyman.

Neal studied him. He was very still, as if absorbed in thought. It had the combined effects of making him semi-invisible to the casual glance and giving the impression that he was utterly focused on something just out of view. Which he apparently was, because the second the stocky guy left the deck, Burke turned to the other Neal. "Did you get it?"

"Cake," said the other Neal, coming back with a swagger in his step. He winked at Neal.

A smile lit Burke's face, and Neal saw the warmth reflected in the other Neal's gaze. Oh. That put a complicated spin on matters. No wonder the other him was so relaxed about working with the Feds, if it was like that.

"I should go," said Neal vaguely, stepping back. Leaving them to it, whatever it was. He couldn't afford to get tangled up in this, not after the close call during the Venice job.

"Wait!" The other Neal reached out to stop him, caught his wrist, and darkness closed in like a shroud, blotting out everything, collapsing Neal down to a tight twist and throwing him to his knees. Cold sliced through his chest, stabbed his throat, and he gasped, first in shock, and then at a rush of new memories and knowledge and feelings: Kate was dead; he was wearing a tracking anklet; Peter and his wife. He _loved_ Peter—helplessly, secretly, beyond all hope of extrication. It hurt almost as much as the loss of Kate.

"Neal!" Peter was kneeling over him, hands on his chest, worried. "Neal, are you all right? What happened?"

"I—" Neal wanted to roll away, find somewhere dark and private to get his head together. Or to roll toward Peter and take shelter there.

"Did Armistead's guy do something?" Peter's tone demanded an answer.

Neal struggled to think. He could remember the conversation with the stocky guy, every word. It hadn't been him, talking to the guy, but—it had. "No. It's nothing. I just lost it for a minute. I'm fine."

He had to get away.

Peter still looked concerned, but he gripped Neal's hand and hauled him to his feet. They ended up standing too close, neither of them moving back, and the knowledge was like a jolt of electricity, clearing Neal's head.

Peter's jaw clenched, and he looked away, and Neal knew deep down that they were both aware of the situation, the unacknowledged attraction between them, and most of all, they were both conscious of the wire Neal was wearing taped to his chest.

"You're okay," said Peter, roughly. He started to move away, and Neal pulled himself together.

"That's what I said." He needed to talk to Moz, except—Moz couldn't tell him anything he didn't already know. Neal knew everything he'd said, how he'd felt. The grief and boredom and frustration of his most recent time in prison. The soft sympathy of Elizabeth's smile when he'd got out. The exhilaration of working with Peter again, and Diana and Jones, designing and baiting traps, and letting the bad guys catch themselves. Feeling useful and appreciated. Lisbon seemed like a dream. Kate wasn't in Prague; she was gone. There'd never been a coded note. "Low blood sugar," he said. "I didn't have time for dinner."

"Okay," said Peter. He studied Neal a second longer through narrowed eyes, then seemed to decide to believe him. Clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, I'll get you something when we get back to the city. You did good."

Neal felt a rush of warmth. "Something that took more than four minutes to cook?" he asked, hiding behind teasing. Peter knew about Emilio now—that was one step nearer to them actually talking about what was going on between them. And getting food together sounded pretty close to being a date. Close enough for now, anyway.

Peter rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Yeah. Your choice. Just try not to break the bank."

They'd almost reached Staten Island. Neal went and sat on a metal bench in the middle of the deck and pulled his jacket across his chest. It wasn't cold, but there was a breeze. Manhattan was lit up like a postcard. The Big Apple.

"It's good to be back," said Neal, half to himself, still feeling a little like he'd spent the last years in exile.

Peter sprawled next to him and shot him a curious look, but all he said was, "It's good to have you back."

Neal tucked that away for later consideration, and they rode the ferry back, exchanging small observations, jokes and companionable silences. Peter's body was solid and distracting beside him. They weren't in Venice or Lisbon or Paris, and there were no grand adventures in the wind, but it felt good, despite the anklet. Despite everything. It felt like home.


End file.
